


Butterfly Wings

by orphan_account



Series: Heart Of Glass, Heart Of Stone [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-09
Updated: 2012-03-09
Packaged: 2017-11-01 16:01:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a shell of what he used to be: the murder of John Watson by the hands of a bitter and jealous Sebastian Moran has left the detective with no real reason to live other than that of revenge.<br/>And the beast within demands its fill of blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Butterfly Wings

Sherlock Holmes feels nothing.

Nothing matters to him anymore and he decides that about himself as he comfortably observes his own life from above, something he's always done when it all becomes too much.

It is a way of escaping pain and, sometimes, punishment: he _becomes_  his own experiment.

The man who never feels is forced to feel too much, and it is for the sake of his own sanity that his very own mind becomes the butterfly so gingerly pierced by a silver pin, so carefully dissected, so delicately set under a glass frame.

He hasn't eaten.

Hasn't slept.

Hasn't spoken.

He ignores every call and every journalist. He even ignores Lestrade, sitting impassively as the DI sighs and shouts and begs at him, _for_  him, for his help and guidance, things that Sherlock observes Sherlock thinks are nothing more than hollow words and skulls and lives (both the wretched ones and the deceased ones), now useless piles of clutter, petty little creatures he has no desire to interact with.

John is no longer there to tell their tale and this is different from Irene, it is colder and more definite and much, much scarier. Cigarettes and violins and old texts won't cure this illness.

He can see (but it doesn't phase him) that he is slipping into old routines and habits.

Most of all, he can see that what little humanity John had gifted him with has burned away.

This, of all things, does not scare him - he knows it gives him strength.

*****

"You took your time, Mister Holmes."

It has been a month and a day since Sherlock found John.

Since he stood, quiet and shaking ever so slightly, over a body maimed and broken. 

Right after a funeral he remembers nothing of (and gladly hopes he never will) he found his brother waiting in the flat and Sherlock noticed how old Mycroft looked, how sad, even.

The latter surprised him. He knew from the older man's eyes that three days of no food and little to no water and the least human contact possible had taken their toll on him, made his icy blue eyes even colder, made his hollow face even more sunken.

They didn't speak and Sherlock made them tea. 

Those had been forty five quiet and excruciating moments during which Sherlock had felt himself come so unhinged and become so scared (emotions he wasn't used to, emotions that puzzled him) that when Mycroft had grabbed Sherlock's hand and squeezed it before whispering, solemnly, "We'll find him, brother." he'd nearly laughed out in exhasperation as to how _hard_  his brother was trying to be human when they both knew neither of them ever had been. And because now that John is dead everybody thinks Sherlock has to be protected. 

He has to be taken care of and nutured, as if John had been some kind of babysitter. He is a poor, lost little boy without his mommy and everybody, from Lestrade to Mrs. Hudson to Molly, are making a great big deal out of everything he does. This annoys him and bothers him, mainly because he knows that they're right, that he _is_ lost. He is alone. He realizes this far too quickly and far too soon.

He is so utterly alone and he does not want a soul to know this.

But he doesn't want his brother's men to find Moran and drag him away God knows where. No, Sherlock Holmes will have _nothing_  of that: revenge is his and his alone, and the beast within demands its share of blood.

He is on the ceiling and he sees himself standing in the middle of an old abandoned warehouse. Sebastian Moran is in front of him.

The butterfly throbs and twitches as the pin digs deeper inside of it.

Sherlock Holmes is dying and it is all because, once upon a time, a sniper fell in love with a criminal, a doctor showed a detective he had a heart. But then the detective whisked the criminal away and the sniper was jealous and bitter, alone, so he took the doctor in return.

And now the detective no longer has his soul and the sniper no longer has his sanity, which is more or less the same thing.

Sebastian Moran chuckles. 

"I thought you'd come after me the very same _day_."

He had thought to do so, but then he'd tried to stand up and he'd felt his own knees buckle. He'd remained, crouched on the floor, chest shuddering but no sound nor tears happening, and observed with a mix of puzzlement and awe at how much John's loss had already influenced him. The moment his knees hit the ground, and something inside shattered.

Up to then, he simply hadn't been able to muster the energy and will to go and hunt for Moran.

"You forgot this."

He sees but doesn't feel his wrists move his hands. Sherlock Holmes throws a tiny army knife at Moran, who grabs it.

_Hic Sunt Dracones_ , here there be dragons, it reads. A gift from Jim. One of the rare ones, along with many scars and far too many loose screws. 

It's still dirty with John's blood. Moran wipes what he can on his pants, the fancy evening pants he hadn't worn for three years, six months and a lifetime. 

"So here we are, Sherlock Holmes. The two survivors."

Sebastian has put on a façade of madness and Moriarty-esque charm to hide the pain and fear and emptiness, to hide the joy of the _end_ soon approaching.

He lights a cigarette and shakes his head.

"Jim would be proud of me."

Sherlock flinches.

"I guess he did beat you, in the end. Thanks to me, you are nothing. Thanks to me, we took away the one and only thing that was ever _important_ , a useless, ordinary little blog-"

But Sherlock's bullet cuts him short. It hits him in the shoulder, enough pain with no promise of death, and Sebastian collapses. 

The beast within is black and throbbing and begging for more.

Sherlock grabs the sniper and wrestles him. He secures him between his legs, face down. He grabs him by the hair and brings his ear close to his lips.

Moran is shuddering and it's the strongest feeling he's had in months. He drinks from it, fully aware that this is the last thing he'll ever know.

It is a blessing.

Holmes slips his fingers inside Moran's mouth and pulls his head back even more, tugging violently.

"Yes--but what happens when you take from the beast the only thing that makes it _human_ , Moran?"

Sebastian screeches and there's a low, gurgling laugh mixed in there too.

Sherlock thinks he realizes how much of Moriarty has rubbed off onto his little "pet", and it scares him but also intrigues him. Some forgotten, abandoned piece of him also hopes that John never lost his humanity for Sherlock's sake. A little voice answers not to be scared.

But John has been taken away from him, and he is nothing.

Jim has been taken away from him and he is empty.

Moran feels Sherlock's long, webby fingers wrap around his neck and the butterfly desperately tries to flap its wings. Listen, you can almost hear its tiny scream.

The assassin drinks the nectar that is pain and the promise of death.

He wants - _needs_  - Holmes to kill him and knows that this is exactly what's going to happen.

Sherlock tastes tears and knows, or pretends to, that they're not his. He thinks of John - lonely John, loyal John, caring John. _Dead_  John. - and the emptiness inside digs a neverending chasm. 

In the fraction of the instant before he snaps Sebastian Moran's neck, Sherlock Holmes realizes that no promise of revenge - a soul for a soul - will ever fill the void. 

But it is too late, and the butterfly stops thrashing, the bones twist and shatter between his hands.

The beast roars and devours the human, the experiment is finished.

A dissected butterfly's wings are forgotten on a table, never to be swept away.

They turn to dust.

A love than never was and yet was stronger than anything can be seen in photographs, in smiles, in blog posts. Summer evening's air will sweep it away, sooner or later.

It turns to dust.


End file.
